


You Must Realise

by Suckers Dream Obscene (PoisonedDeath)



Category: Placebo
Genre: Drugs, Gen, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-16 04:46:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1332442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoisonedDeath/pseuds/Suckers%20Dream%20Obscene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stefan looks back on his short time with Brian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Must Realise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [facade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/facade/gifts).



> Please excuse the references to Placebo songs, and the fact that half of this is incoherent babbling.

My heart has rained ebony since you've been gone. My eyes have dripped salt that blinds me, that blurs my surroundings to the point where I lose my way. I guess I'm lost without you. Yes, you who viewed yourself as insignificant. You who would stumble in at half three in the sorrowful morning, disturbing the sleep I so desperately craved. You'd sob, you'd kick out, you arms were bloodied dartboards, and your eyes were the beginnings of bitter floods. I'd hold you, nurse you and long to cure you of your addictions, the diseases that were eating away at you. I wanted nothing more than to help you, but, alas, I guess I was asking for too much. I can remember the day we met – you at the back of the train; you were perplexed by the slurred words and overlapping voices. Your eyes showed nothing but confusion and fear, pure terror echoing through your head – not seeing a thing, paying no attention to it all, but overhearing too many conversations. I knew at first glance that you had issues, dependencies. But I could see beyond that, too, to the introvert, to the boy fighting to be accepted as he sat in hiding, his torso covered by nothing but a flimsy black dress, his battered arms were bare. You were wearing ripped stockings and had makeup from the day before smudged down your face. Your black hair, with roots beginning to grow through, hung around your pale face, greasy and limp. That pale face... It haunts me to this day. I wanted to approach you then, but I was terrified of the man sitting beside you – a grimy forty-something with a ton of tattoos. I was intimidated by this man, a picture of masculinity, a stark contrast to you, which is why I found myself to be is intrigued by you. That was why I waited until he had gone. You, however, simply looked through him, ignored him. He didn’t exist to you. I would later learn that you didn’t notice things that didn’t matter, and so thus, you never noticed dodgy men on cramped trains – the ones that wanted to fuck you because they thought you were a chick. Later, once all had been said and done, I’d collect you from some putrid alleyway, bruised and broken, and I’d carry you home. You’d never stay, though – you always had somewhere to be, someone to meet, something to do. I knew where you were going, but I couldn’t make you stay. How could I? I knew you only wanted a brief escape – some respite – from the pain that was tearing away at your insides. I wanted to smother that pain. I introduced you to my parents when they visited and I didn’t even request for them to treat you well; they just did. You see, there are good people in this world. We wanted to help you; we all knew that you were broken. I couldn’t judge you for having a drug problem; I couldn’t judge you for the means you took to acquire these illicit substances. I didn’t want to judge you. I just wanted to know who was underneath it all. That shy boy with the track marks. That shy boy flirting with anyone and anything that he could see. That shy boy hooked on more drugs than I wanted to allow myself to accept. I always thought it’d be an accident. I always thought you’d overdose. I never expected to find you hanging in the closet – my closet - your suicide note written over your left arm in a morbid mix of marker pen and scarlet lipstick, deep cuts adorning the right. I remember that moment, but I cannot recall the rest. I just remember your face. Despite the grey tone it had obtained, it seemed to bear evidence of a pure form of relief. After you had left, I wanted to move from this apartment, to get away from the events that had unfolded, but I eventually discovered that, really, I didn’t. I’m close to you here. Each night, I lie in my room, pleading that sleep will wash over me, and I stare at the closet in which you died. And I remember you. I remember you so well. It is at these moments, I find the strength to carry on. It is at these moments that I realise that I’m never alone.


End file.
